The last time I held your hand
Could have been today
Had I been brave enough
to reach out
and feel the cold.
But I wasn’t
And now you’re gone
Were they careful when they carried you away?
Respectful?
Was there honor and reverence at the privilege
Of bearing the bones
Of so great a man
On his one last journey?
One last car ride.
One final trip.
From my quiet corner
I watched the birth kids hold
the cold hand.
And kiss the cold, yellowed brow.
And brush the full head of magnificent hair.
One last time.
One last sob.
One more deep, guttural groan of grief.
I stood silent in the corner
Willing myself to watch in wonder
In spite of your breathless chest
And your ever-smiling eyes
Shut tight.
No furrow in the 90-year brow
At all
Anymore
(What do you now know that we don’t?)
I, the one who came to this family late.
Taking his name… your name.
In law.
What a phrase.
So transactional.
It could never capture what it is to love a man
And then be invited into his family.
Loved like a daughter.
But not quite.
Of course, not quite
the same.
Not really the same at all
as the one who is bone of your bones.
Flesh of your flesh.
The perfect reflection of the perfect one you chose
all those years ago.
Who departed all those years ago
And left you with her mirror image
growing up
before your eyes.
You loved me the best you could
As the one who stole your son
Then made him a father
And you a grandfather
And then a great-grandfather
I loved you deeply.
Fiercely.
And with not a little frustration, at times.
Just like you loved me.
I wanted the last time I had held your hand
to be when it was warm.
Gnarled, curled fingers
Wrapped around mine
Squeezing a thank you you could no longer speak
That’s the hand I will remember.
And the one that reached out into the air
Grasping for things unseen.
Trapped between two worlds
And ready to go
I don’t know who I was that day
When you reached out and buried your hand in her hair
And caressed her head with such tenderness
But I will remember that hand
Buried against my cheek
And weep
For the last 11 weeks we have been on a rollercoaster ride with our dear Opa, through two big falls, two brain bleeds, one brain surgery, lots of hard work and physical therapy, lots of wishes to leave this earth and go home to be with the Lord. It’s been exhausting to lose this summer (entirely—like I didn’t even notice it pass, because it was filled with working and visiting Opa, and little else).
The details of the journey are unimportant, but the final end is that he passed into eternal glory yesterday, 11 weeks to the day after the first of two falls. I will miss him every day of my life until the end of it. He was a constant fixture and presence of wisdom and wry humor and smiling eyes and a deep, gruff voice that greeted me always with “Moooorrrgen,” whatever the time of day. I am just beginning to process what it means that he isn’t here, though I have imagined the day for over a decade, since his beloved wife departed earth ahead of him, and far too soon. Indeed, the Smiling Eyes have joined the Delightful Laugh on streets of gold. In fields of green. By quiet streams.
This is the poem I wrote, using this month's writing prompt for Poets Online—to use the phrase "the last time" in some way. It was chosen for publication. I wonder if Opa would have been proud... or maybe just a little bit embarrassed.
Rest well, fine sir. I miss you every single day. I know I will see you soon... for "what are days and weeks and months and years," really?
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